


monster

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demon Bellamy, Demon Sex, F/M, Monsters, Possessive Behavior, Smut, Voyeurism, just general creepy demon behaviour, mentions of underage masturbation, monster under the bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29460993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: When Clarke goes to college, she’s sure she’s rid herself of the monster that’s lived under her bed since she was a child. She couldn’t be more wrong.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 54
Kudos: 281
Collections: Bellarke smut





	monster

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not dead

Clarke was six years old when she discovered there was a demon living under her bed. She couldn’t be sure if he’d always been there and she just hadn’t noticed, or if his inhabitancy was a new development. She only knew that one day she had been happily unaware of his existence, and the next she was scared to go to bed each night, for fear that he would do something terrible to her.

Things had always tended to go missing in Clarke’s room—socks, toys, hairclips. Her mother scolded her for being messy and careless with her belongings, but truthfully, Clarke had been the opposite, even at six. She knew _someone_ was taking them. Her best guess at the time was fairies trying to mess with her.

It had been particularly upsetting when she couldn’t find her favourite colouring book—she’d worked so hard to stay inside the lines and she was almost done colouring Rapunzel’s dress. Her mother was no help at all—her only advice was “it must be there somewhere” and “try looking under the bed” which, of course, Clarke had already tried.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to look again. So she stomped back up to her room (to let her mother know she was annoyed), got down onto the carpet on her belly, and looked. And there he was.

She saw his eyes first—deep red and glowing. The eyes were attached to a body—a man’s body, big and hulking, barely able to fit under her four-poster princess bed.

She screamed. She screamed her lungs out as she ran back downstairs, crying, begging her mom to come and get rid of the man under her bed. Abby was reluctant, but she did her duty, resignedly crouching down to look under her daughter’s bed. Only to proclaim there was no one there.

Except there _was_ because Clarke could still see him. Why couldn’t her mom see him? She clung to Abby’s side, terrified. And yet all her mom did was pat her head and tell her she must’ve imagined it.

Not a man then, Clarke deduced. Some kind of monster, that only she could see. That only made him more terrifying. She told her mother as much, and she received a patronising smile in return, and the advice that as long as she was a good girl, the monster wouldn’t be able to get her.

And when the monster bared his teeth at her and nodded, Clarke believed it.

-

_Twelve Years Later_

Maybe some eighteen-year-olds feel a sense of loss when they first head off to college. Leaving their family for the first time, the home they grew up in, their old friends, their childhood. The familiar is gone, replaced with uncertainty and unknown.

All Clarke feels is relieved. She couldn’t get her parents out of there fast enough once they’d helped her pack everything into her dorm. She did feel a _little_ guilty at the tear in her dad’s eye as he hugged her goodbye. But not enough to overshadow the absolute, overwhelming feeling of freedom.

She looks around her tiny little room, less than half the size of the one back home. She grins, knowing she has it all to herself. Alone at last. Well, she’s pretty sure.

She quickly flips the lock on the bedroom door, making sure no neighbour can barge in on her and wonder what the fuck she’s doing, then gets to her hands and knees, peering cautiously under the bed. Nothing. Empty.

She exhales, and the last bit of tension drains from her muscles. After twelve years under the constant threat of having her soul sucked out by an other-worldly demon, she’s finally free.

She’s pretty sure at some point she was supposed to grow out of believing in monsters under the bed. Her mother certainly thought so, when at fourteen she still wanted to sleep with the light on, wanted her mom to tuck her in at night, woke up in a sweat, sometimes screaming, her head filled with nightmares of _him_.

Except not nightmares—because Clarke always knew they were real. Only, she had to stop telling people that. Her therapist was so pleased when Clarke finally admitted she’d made the whole thing up to get attention. Clarke still wonders if there’s a way she can get that bitch fired.

But she doesn’t have to worry anymore. Doesn’t have to keep her arms and legs tucked under the covers all night so he won’t grab her and drag her into the abyss that must exist beneath her bed. Doesn’t have to worry about her things going missing. Doesn’t have to get changed in the bathroom so he won’t see her naked body. Doesn’t have to be on her best behaviour so he won’t steal her soul. She can have sex. She can _masturbate_.

She shudders at the memory of the first and only time she’d tried it. At sixteen, she’d slipped her fingers into her pyjama pants one night, unable to bear the ache between her legs any longer. She knew she shouldn’t—good girls didn’t do that, and she had to be good, if she wasn’t good, the demon would take her soul.

But she was so wet, her pussy throbbing after reading a romance novel she’d stolen from Monty’s mom. Another thing she shouldn’t have done, not if she wanted to keep the monster at bay. Yet she kept doing things like that—more frequently as she got older. Little infractions that could hardly be described as good, even if they weren’t downright evil. It’s like she was testing him. Like maybe subconsciously she _wanted_ him to come and take her.

With her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers moving between her legs, she’d touched herself, explored her opening, played with her clit, made herself whine and pant with pleasure. And then, his voice.

He spoke to her infrequently, sporadically, without warning. But she could recognise his voice in an instant. Deep, gravelly. Thrilling.

“That’s it, princess _,_ ” he whispered, his voice too close for comfort. Her eyes flew open, and she would’ve screamed had his big hand not been pressed over her mouth, covering half her face. “Shh _,_ ” he said. “Naughty girl.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide as he pulled his hand away from her mouth.

“Don’t take my soul,” she croaked out, panicked, her heart racing. He’d threatened it many times. “Please. I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“What will you do?” he asked, almost mockingly. Her hand was still between her legs, and she went to remove it now, but he grabbed her forearm, stopping her. “Don’t you want to finish? I could help you _._ ”

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes, terror hollowing out her chest. “Please,” she whimpered weakly.

“No need to cry, princess _,_ ” he cooed, almost soft now. Her breath caught as he thumbed away a stray tear. “I won’t take your soul. Not tonight. Not if you promise me something.”

Clarke nodded frantically. “Yes.”

“You mustn’t let anyone touch you the way you’ve touched yourself tonight. The moment you lose your virginity—I will possess your soul, and keep it as my own,” he growled.

“Okay,” Clarke had agreed meekly. She would have agreed to anything at that point. His eyes weren’t glowing red that night, but the deep brown pools could still hypnotise her.

“Good girl,” he murmured, breath hot against her ear. “Goodnight, princess. You can finish, if you like. I promise I won’t watch.”

And then he was gone. And even though she’d been paralysed with fear only moments before, now the throbbing between her legs was even stronger, her thighs slick with her own juices, her heart pounding erratically. What if he’d made her keep going? What if he’d told her he’d take her soul unless she let him watch? And why did the thought of it make her ache with need?

She ignored her urges, and tried to sleep instead.

Because even though he was gone, he was never really gone. Even when he wasn’t there, he was still _there_. She could feel his presence looming over her every night when she went to bed. Even when she went to sleepovers, she could feel him there, watching, so she’d had to stop going, eventually losing all the friends who thought she was a loser for not coming to their slumber parties.

The demon had told her it was for the best—who needed friends like that?

Now though, Clarke can make friends with whoever she wants. And as long as she never mentions the fact that she had a demon living under her bed for most of her childhood, everyone will think she’s a perfectly normal eighteen-year-old. Hopefully with a very healthy, active sex life.

-

There’s a guy living in a dorm a few doors down from hers. He’s cute, and kind of a flirt. Well, okay, a _lot_ of a flirt. She asks him for directions, and he tells her his name is Finn in lieu of any actual helpful information. Which is fine, because she was only asking him for directions as a way to start a conversation anyway. He asks her if she wants to _hang out_ , and she gets the distinct impression that he means _right now_. As if she’s just going to go into a stranger’s dorm and fuck them at eleven o’clock in the morning. But at least it means he’s interested and she gives him her number, telling him she’s free later in the week.

Losing her virginity is going to be even easier than she thought.

The date is…fine. She doesn’t really have anything to compare it to. Dating was a no-go in high school, due to the whole monster-under-the-bed thing, plus over-protective parents, and a fierce perfectionist streak when it came to her school work—only partly due to the threat of having her soul sucked out.

Finn takes her to a bar, and she can’t even get drunk because she doesn’t have a fake ID, and even though she thinks she passes for 21, the bartender isn’t an idiot. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s not here to drink, she’s here to give some semblance of respectability before she gets laid. She can’t lose her virginity to a guy she hasn’t even been on a date with. Even if it turns out to be less of a date and more of a group hangout with Finn’s friends. It’s fine.

Finn walks her back to her dorm—it is only two doors down from his—and he kisses her. No hesitation. She doesn’t tell him it’s her first. As far as first kisses go, she’s sure other people must have had worst. And then she invites him inside. God, she can actually _do_ that now. Invite people into her room. She’s giddy at the thought of this shred of normalcy. She grins at Finn as she leads him inside, then pulls him into a kiss.

Finn is eager—she knew he would be. She didn’t exactly dress conservatively tonight, and his eyes have barely left her cleavage for more than a few seconds at a time. His hands are on her in an instant, and she drags him over to the bed, kicking her off her heels and pulling her top over her head as she goes.

His mouth mauls her face, his hands paw at her breasts, tugging her bra down to reveal her nipples. The sensation is unpleasant at best. She’s supposed to like this, right? Where’s that achy feeling between her legs, the fluttering in her stomach, the buzz of anticipation? She wonders if maybe she’s actually a lesbian, and her attraction to men has all been in her head. Or maybe Finn just isn’t any good at kissing.

“Now, I know you can’t be enjoying that,” comes a voice in the darkness. _His_ voice. Not Finn’s, but the demon. Clarke freezes. Finn squeezes her boob like it’s a fucking bicycle horn, and Clarke hears the demon actually _wince_.

Clarke lets out a panicked cry, her face flaming as she shoves Finn away from her. She tries to tug her bra back over her bare breasts, and when that fails, resorts to covering herself with her arms, brutally aware of the demon’s eyes on her the whole time. _Now_ she feels her pussy throb.

“Clarke?” Finn says, lifting his head. “What’s wrong?”

“You need to leave,” she says.

“But—”

“Get out!” she snaps, and Finn scrambles from the bed, a look of terror in his eyes, as if _he’s_ the one being haunted by a childhood demon. He’s out of there fast—he hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“He would’ve come faster than that,” the demon muses. “You’re better off. If he’s that bad at kissing, he’s not going to be able to make you come.”

Clarke flushes, her stomach flipping over. She manages to look at him. Her heart pounds, and she clutches her arms across her chest. She squirms under his heavy gaze, looking down to make sure her nipples aren’t showing.

“I thought you were gone,” she whispers.

He grins wickedly, and she feels a tug between her legs. Nope, definitely not a lesbian. But god, why does he have to be hot? It’s bad enough that he caught her half-naked underneath some inexperienced freshman, but does he have to look so stupidly sexy? All that brown skin, those hard muscles, dark curly hair. And freckles to top it off? Where the fuck does a demon get freckles?

“I thought I’d let you get settled in. Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?”

Clarke swallows. “I couldn’t—feel you,” she stammers. “Your presence.”

He raises one eyebrow, the rest of his face staying perfectly still. “No,” he agrees. “I didn’t want you to know I was here. Did you miss me?”

“Why are you here?” she whispers. “What do you want from me?”

He saunters over, until he’s looming over her, her heart in her throat, adrenalin racing through her veins. He takes her chin between his fingers and tilts her head up, forcing her to look at him. His touch is scorching. She feels naked, vulnerable, though all the important parts are covered.

“You know why,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “You made me a promise. You lose your virginity, and your soul is mine.”

Clarke lets out a whine and his eyes flash. “If it’s my soul you want,” Clarke manages, though her breath is short, and she feels a little faint, “you should’ve let Finn have me.”

The demon smirks. “Getting braver, aren’t we?” he says. Clarke glowers at him. Perhaps her sexual frustration is making her brave. Or very possibly just stupid. The demon leans in, his lips grazing her ear. Her heart stutters in her chest.

“When you lose your soul to me, I want it to be worth it,” he whispers. “I want to make sure you enjoy every second of your demise.”

He pulls back, only slightly, his nose almost brushing hers. His dark eyes drop to her mouth and for a moment, Clarke thinks he might kiss her. And for some reason her lips part, and her breath catches, almost like she wants him to.

“It’s Bellamy, by the way,” he tells her. “In case you need something to scream later.”

He lets her go abruptly, and before she can gather her wits enough to offer a retort, he’s gone, leaving her breathless and stunned. His presence, however, lingers. Lingers on her skin, the places he touched her, and places he decidedly didn’t touch her.

She’s sure he’s doing it on purpose—it must be some demon ability he possesses, to turn her on against her will. To make her feel like she’s been kept on the edge for hours, like if someone doesn’t touch her _now,_ she’ll implode from the sheer tension. Because it doesn’t make sense for her to be _actually_ turned on by him. Yes, he’s hot. But he’s terrifying, and creepy, and not even human.

His name plays on a loop in her head. _Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy._ An unexpectedly beautiful name for a monster. She’s surprised he parted with it so easily. Subconsciously she supposed he wouldn’t have one, or that it would be a Rumpelstiltskin type situation—that knowing his name would give her some kind of power over him. Yet it seems like it’s only given him more power over her.

She gets changed into her pyjamas under the bed covers, in case he’s watching. Even though the thought of him watching makes her pulse between her legs, and when she slips off her panties, they’re soaked through. She knows _Finn_ didn’t do that.

Humiliated, she hides the panties at the bottom of her laundry basket, lest he see how wet he made her. Her underwear is just one of the many things that tends to go missing, and she doesn’t doubt he must have a small collection. Then she gets back into bed, keeping all her limbs safely tucked under the covers.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, and she tries to focus on making a to-do list in her head for tomorrow, but her thoughts keep drifting, ultimately ending up at the same place. Her poor, aching, neglected pussy.

She groans pathetically, fisting her hands into her bedsheets to stop them from wandering into her pyjama shorts. God, she’s so unbearably horny. She feels like she’s been unbearably horny for at least two years—since the first time he stopped her from masturbating.

Is she supposed to go the rest of her life without having sex? Or does she just do it anyway and, soul be damned?

She tosses and turns, squeezing her legs together, trying to think of anything else, but the more she tries, the more she’s thinking about it. She needs to come. She thinks she might actually die if somebody doesn’t touch her, if she doesn’t get something hard between her legs _now_.

She wants to finger herself, give herself some semblance of relief, but she knows she can’t, not while _he’s_ here, while there’s the possibility that he might be watching. But, she realises, he can’t follow her to the shower. And it’s most likely deserted at this time of night.

Making her decision, she gets out of bed, grabs her towel and slips on her flip flops before heading down the hall to the bathroom. There’s no one else there, thank god.

She locks herself in a shower stall, and turns the taps to a tepid temperature. Her skin feels hot enough already without a steamy shower making it worse.

She pulls her pyjamas off and stands under the running water, a hand already sliding between her legs, while the other massages her breasts.

She bites her lip as she circles her clit, closing her eyes, trying to find something to focus on that will get her there fast. She forces herself to think of Finn first, but his attempt at seduction had been thoroughly lacklustre, and she just ends up back at Bellamy whispering to her in the dark. _I want to make sure you enjoy every second of your demise._

She groans, imagining him kissing her, pushing her onto her back— _nope._ She shakes the vision off, and goes through her catalogue of hot celebrities instead. Chris Hemsworth taking her from behind. Natalie Dormer going down on her.

She quickens her pace, rubbing her clit a little harder, panting as the pressure builds. God, imagine if Bellamy could follow her anywhere. Imagine if he appeared in the shower in front of her, pressed her tits against the tiles, then fucked her with his monster cock, giving her no choice in the matter.

“Oh my god,” she moans. “ _Bellamy. Bellamy, yes_.” She’s almost there, she’s almost—she hears a toilet flush, and her eyes fly open. _Fuck_. She shuts off the water abruptly, as if that will salvage the situation.

She burns with humiliation, knowing someone heard her moan Bellamy’s name. Hopefully they thought there was someone having sex in here and not just a sad virgin masturbating to the thought of her childhood monster. The one consolation is that no one else in the dorms knows who Bellamy is.

Clarke waits until she’s sure the bathroom is empty again before she creeps out, her towel wrapped around her, still mostly wet from the shower. She darts back to her room, feeling foolish, and embarrassed, and even hornier than before.

“Did you have fun, princess?” Bellamy asks her. Clarke jumps at the sound of his voice, and his red eyes pierce the darkness. Clarke flicks the light on. “You’re all wet,” he notes. “And naked.”

Clarke clutches her towel tighter to her body, goosebumps erupting over her skin as his eyes rake over her.

“Go away,” Clarke mutters.

Bellamy ignores her. Instead, he crowds her personal space, making her shrink back, yet also making her nipples pucker and strain towards him. He blinks, and his eyes go back to their usual chocolate colour.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you did,” he says mockingly. Clarke flinches, blushing. Could this get anymore humiliating? “I can smell it on you. Did you think of me?” Clarke shakes her head. “Of course you did.” He laughs. He delights in her discomfort, in her torture.

Part of her wishes he’d tug on her towel, leave her naked, then bend her over her desk and take her. Anything to end her suffering. Can he tell?

“I’ll let you get some sleep, princess,” he says, stepping back. Clarke hates the swoop of her stomach that follows, as if she’s actually _disappointed_ he’s not going to touch her. “You know you can finger yourself here in your room next time. I won’t mind.” He winks at her, and then he’s gone again, leaving Clarke even more tightly wound than before.

-

By mid-afternoon the next day, she’s earned the reputation around the dorms of “crazy virgin” thanks to Finn, and the worst part is, she can’t even refute it, because it’s fucking true.

It doesn’t, however, stop her getting invited to a party by a hot lesbian named Lexa, where there will, Lexa assures her, be other hot sapphics.

Clarke wonders if maybe she’s found a loophole. Does sex with another woman count as losing her virginity in the demon world? It seems like they’d be pretty heteronormative, right?

And to be honest, she’s starting to wonder if she even cares about losing her soul. If it means going the rest of her life without sex, she’s not sure she wants it anyway. So she figures she’ll fuck Lexa, and either it won’t count because she doesn’t have a penis, or it will count and Bellamy will take her soul, but at least she won’t feel like she’s going to die of sexual frustration.

She buys a new dress for the occasion, and it’s the sluttiest thing she’s ever owned; short, and tight, and low-cut, with a little cut-out just below her breasts. And it’s black, obviously.

She’s spent the week mostly getting changed in the bathroom or under the blankets on her bed. But she hasn’t actually _seen_ Bellamy since the night she fingered herself in the shower, even though he’s not hiding his presence from her anymore.

She keeps expecting him to appear, to tease her, or mock her, or frighten her. But he doesn’t. She’s not sure why she’s surprised. It’s not like he ever visited her with any sense of frequency or routine before. But she finds herself irritated that he hasn’t, though she can’t for the life of her imagine why. She doesn’t _want_ him there.

But if he’s going to be there anyway, keeping her on edge, he should at least have the decency to show his face, right?

Even as she does her hair and makeup in her bedroom mirror, he doesn’t show. Doesn’t he know she has a date? Can’t he tell she’s going out tonight for the sole purpose of getting railed by a hot lesbian? Doesn’t he want to try and stop her?

Frustrated by his obvious indifference, she strips off down to her panties, right there in her room, not bothering to retreat to the communal bathroom to get changed in a shower stall like she’d been planning.

She ignores the thrill she gets, thinking about the possibility that he’s watching her stand there in nothing but a pair of black cotton panties. He’s probably not. He’s probably torturing puppies in the void, or whatever it is that demons do in their free time.

She grabs her new dress from the hanger and wriggles into it, vainly admiring the way it hugs her curves. She reaches around to zip it up, and then he’s there, right behind her, his body inches from hers.

Her heart leaps into her throat, and she meets his eyes in the reflection as he grabs her wrists, pushing her hands away so he can zip up the dress himself. Her pulse races. From fear, she’s sure.

“What are you doing?” she chokes out.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m being helpful.”

“I don’t need or want your help.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that any way to talk to the being who can steal your soul? Or have you forgotten?”

“Maybe I don’t care anymore.”

He smirks maliciously. “Is that right?” He leans forward, mouth open, ghosting her neck. She freezes up, a whimper slipping from her mouth. He chuckles as he pulls away. Clarke ducks her head, unsuccessfully trying to fight off a blush. Arousal drips into her panties. God, she wishes he didn’t affect her so.

“Were you watching me the whole time?”

“What do you want the answer to be?”

She turns so she’s facing him, which ends up being a mistake, because he doesn’t do the courteous thing and step back to give her room, so she’s basically pressed up against him, his body heat seeping into her skin. She wants to back away, truly, but she’s rooted to the spot, unable to pull herself away from him.

His eyes dip to her expansive cleavage, then trail down the rest of her body. She squirms under his scrutiny. Even Finn wasn’t this brazen.

“Who are you all dressed up for?” he asks huskily.

She lifts her chin. “A girl. Lexa. We’re going to a party.”

She expects him to laugh, to mock her like he usually does. But his jaw tightens and his eyes flash darkly. “It still counts,” he growls. “If you let this girl take your virginity. I’ll own you.”

“Maybe it will be worth it,” Clarke quips. And for once, she has the last word.

-

Clarke meets Lexa at her dorm and immediately wonders if she’s overdressed when she sees Lexa is just wearing a brown leather jacket with jeans.

“You know it’s just a house party, right?” Lexa asks her. “And you’re hot enough you don’t need to dress like that.”

Clarke bristles, though the comment is disguised as a compliment. And yeah, even when she was picking the dress, she knew it was a little over the top. But she had to show Bellamy—she stops herself there, as it occurs to her she might not have been entirely honest with him about who she dressed up for.

It sure as hell doesn’t impress Lexa, and Clarke finds she hardly cares, apart from the fact that Lexa seems to be calling her a slut with her eyes.

But she just shrugs, because she’s here now, and she wants to go to the party and she wants to lose her virginity at said party. _Not_ in a bedroom. Hopefully there will be some secluded corner or closet. Apparently she’s fine with Bellamy taking her soul, as long as he doesn’t actually watch her get fucked.

Clarke never really got invited to parties in high school. She didn’t have many friends, and the ones she did have weren’t exactly the kind of people throwing big parties. After half an hour at _this_ party, she realises she hasn’t exactly been missing out on much.

She’s got a cup of warm beer in her hand, that tastes like how she would imagine a piss cocktail would taste. She wonders briefly if underage drinking is a bad enough offence for Bellamy to take her soul, or if he’s truly only waiting for her to lose her virginity now.

She follows Lexa around lamely, knowing exactly zero other people at the party, but she kind of gets the vibe that even though Lexa _knows_ a lot of people, not many people actually like her. With the aggressive, self-righteous demeanour she has, Clarke isn’t exactly surprised.

She’s a good kisser, at least. Better than Finn, anyway, though that isn’t saying much. She captures Clarke by the mouth mid-sentence, and Clarke responds, finally progressing towards her goal for the night.

Lexa leads her upstairs, but Clarke stops her when she tries to go into one of the bedrooms.

“Not there,” Clarke says. “I—I think I saw someone go in there. How about the study?” She motions to the open door across the hall. Lexa nods approvingly, and Clarke tugs her inside.

Their mouths clash, and Lexa lets Clarke take the lead for once. Clarke backs her up against the desk as Lexa’s hands roam her body, far more adept than her previous sexual encounter. If what happened with Finn could even be described as a sexual encounter.

It’s good, Clarke thinks. She assures herself she’s having fun, that she wants this. But there’s this niggling doubt in the back of her mind. As Lexa’s hand reaches between her legs, Clarke catches her wrist, stopping her before she can touch her.

Guilt pools in Clarke’s stomach, and Bellamy’s breath on her neck flashes to the forefront of her mind. She has the overwhelming feeling that she shouldn’t be doing this, that’s she’s doing something wrong by being here with Lexa, by letting someone touch her like that.

Thoughts _he_ put there. God, he really fucked her up good. Is she always going to have this sense of guilt and shame surrounding sex? What does she want, for him to tell her it’s okay? That she’s still a good girl if she loses her virginity? And then, fuck, her cunt throbs at the thought of it, of him telling her she’s a good girl while he strokes her desperate, aching pussy.

“What’s wrong?” Lexa asks.

“I can’t do this,” Clarke says hoarsely, hating herself for it, wishing she could go through with it but knowing she can’t.

“Why not?”

“I just—can’t,” she says. And then she flees. She realises she’s just solidifying her crazy virgin reputation, but unfortunately there’s nothing to be done about that.

She reaches her dorm, kicking her heels off as she bursts through the door. She feels him before she sees him. His presence hits her in the gut, smothers her, makes her weak, makes her ache with want. She wants to cry in frustration, wants him to fucking rip off her dress and take her.

She groans at the thought, half aroused, half hating herself for even thinking it. How fucked up is she that she wants her childhood demon to take her virginity?

He’s there in an instant, like he’s been waiting for her return. He looms over her, jaw tight, expression more menacing than anything she’s seen before.

“Did you do it?” he growls, voice laced with an almost jealous accusation. Clarke only whimpers in response. She can’t think with him standing so close, with her body feeling like it’s about to combust. He grabs her, and she gasps. “Did you?” he roars.

“No,” Clarke whines. She never imagined he wouldn’t be able to _tell_.

His expression immediately changes. He relaxes, and his scowl turns into a self-satisfied smirk. And then he actually laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t,” he teases. He pulls her closer, flush against his hard chest, the heat of him making her head spin. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to go through with it,” he whispers.

“You don’t know anything,” Clarke mutters.

“Oh, but I do,” he says. “You couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you?” he whispers, mocking her. “About how disappointed I’d be if you gave yourself to someone else. About how you want to be a good girl for me. About how you want me to own you.”

She can’t stifle the moan his words provoke. He chuckles. “I already own you, Clarke. Can’t you see that?”

She almost begs him to touch her. The throbbing between her legs is too much to bear.

“Bellamy,” she whimpers.

“I told you my name for a reason, princess,” he says. “And one reason only.”

“Please,” she whispers pathetically.

“Please what?”

“Take me,” she says huskily. “Take my virginity. Make me yours.”

A groan rips from his throat, and then he covers her mouth with his, so greedy and forceful, possessive and demanding. Heat blooms in her belly as he kisses her, invades her mouth with his tongue, igniting her in a way that neither Finn nor Lexa could even compete with.

His hands slide down her back to grip her ass, pushing her even closer to him, so she can feel his hard cock pressing against her, the implication of his size making her heart race with arousal and terror.

He tugs the bottom of her dress up while his mouth moves to her neck, biting, sucking, kissing in all the right places. His fingers sink into her ass cheeks, and then he flips her around, almost giving her whiplash as he pulls her bare ass against the outline of his cock. She rolls her hips back against him, almost subconsciously.

“God, you’re needy. You want it bad, don’t you?” he laughs, and Clarke flushes.

His mouth drops to her shoulder, and he tugs her panties down roughly, leaving them bunched at the top of her thighs. His hands glide over her stomach then to cup her breasts.

“You have such pretty tits, Clarke,” he coos. “Such pretty pink nipples. I was watching, by the way. I’m always watching.”

He tugs the dress down then, letting her tits bounce free of their confines. He caresses them with much more finesse than Finn’s poor efforts. He rolls her nipples under his thumbs, pinches them, the action causing a corresponding twinge between her legs.

Clarke moans. He unzips the dress then, pulls it off her, so she’s left naked, save for her panties around her thighs. A deep blush covers her body as he steps back, then spins her around, his eyes roving over her, appraising her. She’s never been naked in front of anyone before.

“No need to be embarrassed, pretty thing,” he tells her, which only makes her blush harder.

He closes the gap between them again, then picks her up, putting her over his shoulder, making two long strides over to her bed before setting her down on it. His shirt comes off, which doesn’t do anything to cool the burning of her skin, or dull the ache of her cunt.

The rest of his clothes follow, almost too fast for Clarke to even register, and then he’s naked too, and her eyes catch on his cock, huge and hard and throbbing. Arousal leaks onto her thighs, and she knows that thing is absolutely going to wreck her, but at this point she’d be disappointed if it didn’t.

He crawls on top of her, hovering above her as he drags her panties the rest of the way down, and she toes them off. He claims her mouth again, and slips a hand between them, his fingers finally finding their way to her dripping pussy.

“Absolutely soaking,” he growls. “Nobody else can make you this wet, can they?”

Clarke shakes her head, tilting her hips, pushing up against his hand. She whines as he pulls away, desperate now.

“Please,” she begs. “I need you.” It’s the first time she’s really admitted it, and his eyes flash appreciatively, possessively.

“Tell me exactly what you need, princess.”

“I need you inside me,” she breathes. “Please. I need your cock, I need you to fuck me hard, make me come. Please, I’m so horny.”

“I know you are,” he says. He presses the length of his cock to her slit, along her stomach. The sheer size of it makes her feel faint. It’s got to be at least as long as her forearm, and just as thick too.

“You’ve needed this for years, Clarke. I’m glad you finally understand.” Clarke nods, biting her lip. He rocks up and down, his cock rubbing against her swollen clit. “You’ve been such a good girl,” he croons. “But you know this means your soul will be mine, don’t you?”

“It’s already yours.”

He groans at that, and then he’s spreading her thighs wider, positioning the massive head of his cock at her entrance. He pushes in, invading her tight cunt, her arousal lining the way. She stretches wider for him, her cunt trying to accommodate his massive cock. He’s halfway in, and feels like she’s at her limit, full to the brim, and yet she still wants more, want to take every inch of him inside her tiny virgin cunt.

He slams the last inch inside her, and she feels as though she might actually break, but she doesn’t and she can feel him bulging inside her, filling her completely.

“Good girl,” he says. “Look at that, you took the whole thing, didn’t you? Your little virgin pussy took my big cock all the way inside you, just like you were meant to. Like I knew you would.”

“Oh my god,” she moans. “I’m so full. Oh my god. Please. Fuck me, fuck me.”

“Say my name,” he rumbles.

“Bellamy,” she pants, lying there, impaled on his cock. “Please, Bellamy. Please fuck me.”

He’s not gentle at all, though Clarke would never have expected him to be. He rails her, hard, his massive balls slapping against her ass, his monster cock tearing her in half. Her tits bounce embarrassingly as he pounds into her, and she can do nothing but lie there and take it, spiralling towards her orgasm.

She chants his name, over and over, every time he thrusts into her, hitting the perfect spot every time. She screams his name as she comes, just like he always wanted her to. Moments later, he roars as he comes inside her, loads of thick, hot semen filling her used cunt.

He pulls out, and it trickles out of her, onto the sheets below. She squeezes her legs together, trying to keep as much of it inside her as she can, loving the feeling of being thoroughly claimed by him.

He sits on his knees, looking down at her, and she blushes under his watchful gaze.

“You’re mine,” he tells her, and she nods. “No one else is allowed to touch you. Understood?” She nods again.

“Will you—will you stay? You don’t have someone else, do you? Only me?”

“Only you,” he confirms, and Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. “My soul is yours too.”

Clarke reaches for him, and he dutifully lies down beside her, pulling her into his arms. His hold is more possessive than anything, tighter than it needs to be, but Clarke revels in it.

“Were you jealous?” she asks. “When I was with Lexa?”

“Insanely. You were always meant to be mine, Clarke.”

“I know,” she admits. “I think I’ve known it for a long time.”


End file.
